


Saving Little Lady

by olive_garden



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier Have a Dog, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak Needs A Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fix-It, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier Needs a Hug, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Road Trips, Self-Indulgent, Social Media, Stanley Uris Lives, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT), Twitter, as a treat, don't worry the original characters are super minor, fuck it, gold scars, like waitresses n whatever, my emotions say i can have a little self indulgent fic, or they will have a dog, the dog is called Lady because awww, their scars don't disappear, they go to like seven different Denny's restaurants, they're just gold now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:00:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22671415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olive_garden/pseuds/olive_garden
Summary: "I want to stop by my house."Richie slows the car to a stop. "But it's over in Long Island; that's not exactly a rest stop on the way to LA.""I don't want to leave Lady with Myra.""Who the fresh hell is Lady?""My dog. Myra hates her, I can't leave her there."Richie sighs and pulls out his GPS. "Put in your address."
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 23
Kudos: 112





	1. Beginnings of the Zombie Apocolypse

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely self indulgent. just so you know.
> 
> warning for semi-graphic descriptions of Eddie's injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is entirely self indulgent 
> 
> warning for kinda(??) graphic descriptions of Eddie's injuries

_When Eddie falls asleep he dreams of the Quarry._

_He's laying flat on his back, the sting of a stab wound - facial, or otherwise - nothing more than a faint tingling over his skin, and staring up at the sky. Rays of sunlight dance through the water and onto his face. He's holding someone's hand but he doesn't look to check who it is. He breathes in deep through his nose - the damp smell of wet earth and a salty lake - and breathes out just as slow - bubbles float up towards the surface of the water, disappearing before they pop. The water ripples, distorting the light; he grips the mystery hand a little tighter and the hand does the same. A turtle, larger than life, floats overhead and Eddie vaguely hears a voice._

_IT IS NOT YOUR TIME, it says. Or, Eddie thinks it says. He's pretty sure it was the turtle. He doesn't think about it too hard, especially now that his head is spinning and his vision is blurring at the edges. The turtle continues on and on until it disappears behind them. Eddie finally looks over to the person next to him, sand flying up into the water with the movement before it floats back down. He's met with short, blonde curls; fair, smooth skin; small, indented scars circling his face, so faint Eddie is surprised that he even noticed them. The man looks at Eddie and their eyes meet._

_Stanley Uris._

Eddie wakes up.

* * *

Eddie is alive.

This is rather peculiar, as the Losers Club know he should be dead and trapped under a house right now, _not_ standing shell-shocked in the doorway to the Town House with a leather jacket folded over his arm. Not a speck of blood litters his stomach, exposed by the ripped polo shirt that _is_ drenched in blood. The hole that had previously ran through his body - and even the hole in his cheek - has been replaced with a large, gold and shimmering scar, just faint enough to look like regular skin. His eyes flicker from one horrified face to another, eyes resembling that of one who just tipped an inch too far back in their chair, as Stan shuffles into view behind him (fully clothed, thank god, he had noted upon gathering his bearings). 

"Hey, guys," Eddie says.

" _What the fuck!_ " Richie says back. The Losers all start to scream, picking up whatever was closest to throw and use as a weapon; Beverly rolling up a magazine from the table, Richie grabbing a chair by the legs, the rest of the Losers seizing empty or half empty bottles of alcohol. 

What a warm welcome.

Eddie guards Stan with his arm, protecting his face with the other. "How are you here?" Bill yells, raising a red wine bottle high above his head as the remaining contents spill down the back of his shirt and onto the floor.

"I don't know!" Stan splutters. "Something to do with a turtle and-an-and-"

"Turtle bullshit!" Eddie butts in, narrowly avoiding the bottle of chardonnay shattering beside his head against the doorframe after leaving Mike's hand. "Not bullshit! Not bullshit! I'm- we're not bullshitting you, it was this giant turtle dude and he talked to us, and then we were on Neibolt Street, I guess, I don't fucking know, he was very cryptic!"

"A fucking turtle?" Richie scoffs. "A fucking turtle brought you back to fucking life? I thought we killed the fucking clown, Mike."

"Wait!" Mike lowers his second bottle. "Wait, wait, a turtle?"

"Did we not just fucking say that?" Eddie spits.

"I read about that at some point, the turtle." Mike drops his bottle and it breaks on the floor. "They're real." Bev's magazine unfurls and falls from her hands.

"The boys are back?"

"Um... yes?" Stan says.

"What's something stupidly specific only Stan and Eddie would know?" Ben says, more of a suggestion than anything.

"Uh, my wife is named Myra and we used to run a limousine business together," Eddie stammers.

"You chose a risk analyst over a limousine driver?" Richie snickers. "Okay, definitely the real Eddie."

"I'm an accountant and I just miss my wife, okay, fucking hell." Stan raises his hands defensively. Beverly smiles.

"The boys are back!" She flings her arms around their necks, hugging them close. Eddie's gaze finally meet with Richie, who's eyes are blown wide and filled with tears. As soon as Beverly steps away, Richie leaps to grab them both in a hug. Eddie holds on fiercely, burying his face into Richie's shoulder. The rest of the Losers surround them, crying and hugging and laughing as they sink into a pile on the floor.

"God, this deity shit is too fucking confusing," Richie says wetly, wiping his tears away with the heel of his hand. The Losers laugh, equally as pathetically. 

"I think we should all try and get some sleep," Ben says, "we can sort this mess out in the morning. Eddie, you need a new shirt." Eddie looks down, as if just noticing the enormous rip in the shredded polo and he holds the jacket in front of his stomach, face colouring red.

The sluggish group trudge up to their rooms, most of them out cold as soon as their heads hit the pillow. Stan just steals a key for a spare room. It's not like anyone's in the Town House anyway. It's been just them the whole time; something they've decided to just ignore instead of panicking about it. Eddie sits stiffly on his bed, pulling the first shirt out of his suitcase - a comfortable graphic tee that he can't quite remember buying, one he's owned since college - and he hides the tattered polo in a corner for some other poor sod to deal with. His mind rolls over the days events. He died. He fucking died. he doesn't remember much of actually dying, taking his last breath and whatnot, or whatever happened before. It comes back in bits and pieces; little flashes of blood, horrified screams, Richie. He looks down at the leather jacket in his lap. Images of a hand pressing it into his spurting wound fill his vision, Richie talking a mile-a-minute and holding his face. He doesn't want to think about it. He wants to think of anything else but _it._ He wants- no, _needs_ \- something to worry about, but it's hard to worry about anything once you've died and come back to life. He guesses dying makes you a bit more chill about most things. A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. Upon not hearing any objection, Richie hesitantly opens the door. He pokes his head in.

"Hey," he says. "You okay?"

"Other than coming to terms with the fact that I was legally dead for at least an hour, met what I think was god, and now I have to go back to my wife,"-he sucks in a breath-"I'm peachy."

"Right." Richie clears his throat. "Right, just checking, uh..."

"What about you?"

"I just... I'm sorry I couldn't move you out the way." Eddie's chest pinches. 

"What?" Eddie splutters wordlessly. "What are you, a fucking idiot? How the hell were you supposed to see it coming? None of us did." Richie doesn't reply for a while, instead staring down at Eddie's shirt. He smiles.

"You're right."

"I know, jackass."

"Didn't I get you that shirt?" Richie points at the stupid He-Man graphic, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Yeah, I got you that before you left for college! You kept it?" Richie looks genuinely touched. Eddie pulls at the hem and it all comes flooding back to him; standing in the station, waiting for his train, a suitcase at his side, not containing a single fake medication. Richie there with him, handing him a small gift bag. Inside was a black, neatly folded t-shirt with He-Man on the front, without it's present cracks in the graphic from the wash. They hug, holding each other tightly and fiercely while no one's watching, and if someone is, they've forgotten to care.

"Oh, don't let it go to your fucking five-head." Eddie fails in hiding his smile, settling on grabbing an unworn pair of socks and throwing it at Richie's head. "When are you going home?"

"Damn, want me gone already, huh?"

"You know what I mean, asshole."

"I have a flight back to LA in a couple days. I thought this would last a bit longer, if I'm honest." 

"I took a train here," Eddie mumbles, pulling the tickets from the side pocket of the suitcase. "They're for next week." Silence hangs over them like a thick blanket. Eddie stares dumbly at the ticket in his hand; he wants to tear it up and throw it out the window. Maybe set it on fire. "I really don't want to go back to Myra." 

"You know you don't... _have_ to." Eddie looks up like a dear in headlights. He thinks he knows what Richie's on about, but he doesn't want to say it - what if he's wrong? Would that make him a shitty person? So, he treads carefully.

"What do you mean?" he says. Richie flounders, waving his hands wordlessly and flapping his mouth open and closed.

"I mean, uh-" he stammers and pauses to think, "-you need to take control of your own shit, Eds! You don't have to stay with her." 

Eddie laughs and throws the tickets down. "And where would I go? The house is in her name."

"You could stay with me." A thick silence falls once again. Eddie meets Richie's eyes; they're about as shocked as Eddie's own.

"Seriously?"

"You don't have to, if you don't want to, I know my place is over in LA - pretty far from Long Island - but it's a temporary solution. If you're down. Sorry, is this too weird? Did I make this weird?"

"Richie, shut the fuck up," Eddie starts with. He holds up his hands and stands. "That would be really great. Are you sure that's okay?" Richie looks a tad spaced out for a few seconds, staring slack jawed at Eddie, before he sputters to a start like an old car engine.

"Yeah, no, man, it's fine," he says, laughing nervously through his words. "The rest of us are gonna be here for most of tomorrow, so we can just leave together for the airport. And you'll never have to see your mother again. I mean, your wife." Eddie punches him hard in the arm, Richie's loud cackling bouncing around the room. "Ouch! Who knew a zombie could hit so hard. I'm torn!"

"Wounded even?"

" _Hurt_ , Eds!"

"Just go to bed, Rich," Eddie laughs, "we can sort the rest of this out in the morning." Richie pats his shoulder and smiles.

"Night, Eds."

"Don't call me that."


	2. Manhunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's right bitches: social media chapter breaks because those are my shit I love social media fics *cough* read Reddie Rights by AO3 user Srcbabies *cough*
> 
> btw these chapters are gonna be short and not that often because I've recently discovered they're a pain in the cunt to write :/ Scrbabies how do you do it

**Annnieee** **@AnnieWeller**

Richie??? Is in Derry???? Tf?? Since when was he friends with @Marsh_Designs and @WDenbrough??? [Attached to the tweet is three photos: one of Richie, Beverly and Bill with four other mystery-people outside the Derry Townhouse with their suitcases; the second is of them hugging; the third is of them just out of the hug, all crying a little.]

_Replying to_ **@AnnieWeller**

**Richie fuckin Tozier @trashmouthtozier**

whaaat i can't have friends? it's called a hometown visit sweetie 😘

_Replying to_ **@AnnieWeller** _and_ **@trashmouthtozier**

**Beverly Marsh @Marsh_Deisgns**

Damn, ten minutes on Twitter and you're already starting shit #smh

_Replying to_ **@AnnieWeller** _and_ **@Marsh_Designs**

**Richie fuckin Tozier @trashmouthtozier**

as is my brand, bevvy babe 😉 disappear for a month, start some shit, and leave lmao

* * *

**Derry News @DerryNews**

Who would've guessed? Famous comedian, @trashmouthtozier, designer, @Marsh_Deigns, writer, @WDenbrough and architect @BenjaminH have been spotted in our little town of Derry! [Attached to the tweet are two of the photos from Annie's tweet.]

**TMZ @TMZ**

Iconic new friends? @Marsh_Designs @WDenbrough @trashmouthtozier @BenjaminH spotted in Derry, Maine by an eagle-eyed fan. Wonder who their new gang is 🤔 [Attached to the tweet are two of the photos from Annie's tweet.]

* * *

**Richie's secret wife @Robynnnnn**

we just not gonna mention this 👀 who's tHIS cutie [Attached to the tweet is a zoomed in version of one of Annie's pictures; the focus is on Stan.]

_Replying to_ **@Robynnnnn**

**Miss Marsh Please Marry Me @AlecGreen**

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

_Replying to_ **@Robynnnnn**

**G man mf @GeoffreyNewton**

Ok,,, b u t,,,,,,, who t h i s ? ? ? ? ? [Attached to the tweet is the same picture, but the focus is on Eddie.]

_Replying to_ **@GeoffreyNewton**

**Miss Marsh Please Marry Me @AlecGreen**

OOOOOH YOU RIGHTTTTTT !!!!!!!!!!!!!! HE CUUUUTE !!!!!!!!!

* * *

**Annnieee @AnnieWeller**

UM QUESTION MARK [Attached to the tweet are three photos: one of Richie and a man hugging tightly; one of them pulled apart by just a few inches and grinning at each other; one of them getting into Richie's car.]

_Replying to_ **@AnnieWeller**

**G man mf @GeoffreyNewton**

w h- WHO ? ? ? ? ? WHOS MANS KSJSKJSKIK

_Replying to_ **@GeoffreyNewton** _and_ **@AnnieWeller**

**Miss Marsh Please Marry Me @AlecGreen**

i wonder if he has a twitter acc 🤔🤔 seem Pretty Sketch to me #whosemans

* * *

**TMZ @TMZ**

@trashmouthtozier spotted leaving with a mystery man 👀 wonder who his new friend is #whoseman [Attached to the tweet are the photos of Richie and Mystery Man from Annie's tweet.]

* * *

5 • Celebrities • Trending

#WHOSEMAN

9,625 Tweets


	3. Rest Stops: a Five-Part Mini-Opera - Part One: Denny's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i decided to add some like,, side effects from Eddie, ykno, coming back to life??? he's still kind of recovering so he needs to eat a lot and doesn't like moving a lot, which includes being jostled in the car, so there's your reasons for a rest stop every hour of their trip
> 
> pls keep in mind I've never been in a Denny's and all i know is my friend told me that rats originated in their bathrooms.

Eddie's chest is tight as he closes the car door and pulls on his seat belt. He sucks in a breath and says, "Right."

"Right," Richie also says. They stay in silence for a few moments; Eddie sitting stiffly in a car seat, staring straight ahead, and Richie with his hands firmly on the wheel, knuckles white and lips pursed.

He puts in the address of the airport into his GPS, starts the car, and drives off down the road. It takes ten minutes to get out of Derry, the town fading out into pale dirt roads with nothing but more pale dirt for miles and miles, all around them; it's like driving through a desert, except you're on the outskirts of a nightmare filled with shitty people and just re-entering a world of normality where clowns don't eat kids and your high school bullies don't try to murder your best friends. Multiple times. That doesn't usually happen to people, Eddie's sure. He decidedly doesn't think about it. He's got other things to stew over, like 'How messy will Richie's apartment be?' and 'LA is nothing like Long Island, what if it's shit and I've made a horrible decision?' and 'Richie's an awful fucking cook, how long can I last on takeout?' and 'How messy will Richie's apartment be?' A small pit settles in his stomach as he considers how he'll break to Myra that he wants a divorce. He doesn't want to tell her in person. He doesn't want to see her reaction. He doesn't want to end up pussying out. Maybe he'll send a text or leave a voicemail, or go all out and hire a flash mob, decked out with signs spelling out ' _Fuck you, Myra! I'm taking the dog!_ '

Wait. Fuck.

_His dog._

"Wait, stop the car!" he shouts. Richie startles but keeps driving, swerving a little.

"What? Why? What's wrong?"

"I want to stop by my house."

Richie slows the car to a stop, not caring that they're in the middle of the road. There's no one around for miles anyway. "But it's over in Long Island; I hate to break it to you, but it's not exactly a rest stop on the way to LA."

"I don't want to leave all my clothes there," Eddie mumbles, his foot and fingers tapping away at nothing. Richie waits; he's obviously not finished. Eddie would never risk driving off road because he wants to pick up some clothes. He raises his brows sky high, prompting him to continue. "And I don't want to leave Lady with Myra."

"Who in the fresh hell is Lady?"

"My dog. Myra hates her." He runs his hands through his hair, the foot tapping turning into knee bouncing. "I got her two months ago because a friend of mine couldn't look after her. I can't leave her there."

"Why didn't you say that first?"

"I didn't want you to say no."

"So your plan was for me to reschedule our flight to collect your clothes and then what? Sneak your dog on board in the suitcase?"

"Oh, fuck off, I don't know!"

Richie pauses and purses his lips again, eyes darting about the car, not exactly looking at anything, not fixating on any one item on his cluttered dashboard. His apartment doesn't have any sort of No Pets Policy (AKA bullshit), he's pretty sure his downstairs neighbour has three birds and way too many lizards to be healthy along with a cat. What's the harm in having one dog? His apartment's not the biggest, but he could fit a dog in there. How big could a dog called _Lady_ even be? He sighs and pulls the GPS off its stand. "Put in your address." Eddie grins and quickly finds his address and they set off once again. 

* * *

Their first rest stop is an hour into their road trip. They're driving through the next town after Derry when Eddie demands they pull over, dull waves of pain filling his abdomen. "So, this is what happens when you get skewered by an interdimensional clown and come back to life," he groans. Richie hesitantly rubs his back. "I'm really hungry- are you hungry? Is there anywhere to eat around here?"

"Jesus, dude, pick a problem, are you dying again or are you starving to death?" Richie tries; the joke falls flat and neither of them laugh. "I'm pretty sure there's a Denny's around here, I think we passed it a minute ago."

"Well can we fucking go back there, I think I'm about to keel the fuck over."

"Don't be dramatic, dumbass."

"You'd be more dramatic if this were you."

"Would not."

"Just fucking drive, asshole."

After a few minutes of slowly driving back around the way they came and bickering the whole way through, Eddie spots the Denny's. He sits up straighter and has already undone his seatbelt before the car even stops. Richie laughs quietly as Eddie pops the door open and hurriedly scurries around to Richie's side of the car. "Christ on a cracker, Eds, gimme a minute. I'm still fucking forty." They walk into the Denny's and he can just tell the air has a grease content level of 10%. Sticky red booths and bright yellow lights. "You go sit down in a booth or some shit, I'll order; what do you want?"

"Anything greasy that might kill me all over again."

"Do you have any idea how little that narrows the menu down at all?" Eddie punches his arm playfully.

"I'm really in the mood for an egg sandwich, to be honest."

"Then an egg sandwich it is, for my little zombie."

"Do not start fucking calling me that, I swear to fuck-"

"Just go find a booth." Eddie wanders off and settles himself into a booth right in an empty corner and starts to fiddle on his phone. Richie orders himself and Eddie some food, the hunger finally settling in after not eating anything since yesterday morning except a few bottles of alcohol. He sits opposite Eddie and laces his fingers together on the table top. Then he moves his hands to his lap; the table is sticky. Too sticky for comfort. So any amount of stickiness at all.

"This Denny's is disgusting," Eddie mutters under his breath, as if he's afraid the employees will hear, like these eighteen-year-old college students don't already know how shitty a fast-food job is. "Do they ever clean?"

"Dude, it's Denny's: I saw something in one of the bathrooms once and I don't know if it was a small dog or a large rat." Eddie huffs a laugh, ducking his head. He rakes his hands through his hair, runs his hands over his stubble, taps his hand with impatient fingers. Richie's eyes snap towards the window as he realises he's full-on staring. His phone buzzes in his pocket. "Ah, fuck. Steve's texting me."

"Steve?"

"My manager." He squints at the screen for a few seconds before opening Twitter. He bursts out laughing.

"What?" Eddie leans across the table as Richie shows him his screen.

"There's a fuckin manhunt for you, Eds!" Richie cackles and Eddie takes the phone from his shaking hand.

" _Whose man?_ " Richie goes silent with laughter, hiding his face in his hands. "What the fuck is ' _Whose Man?_ '"

"They saw you in a photo, Eds. Twitter thinks you're cute." Richie's laughter dies down as a waitress shuffles over with their food. She takes one look at Richie and her face lights up. She places the food down in front of them.

"Hey, uh- you're Richie Tozier!" she says, a grin spreading on her face.

"Hear that, Eds? I'm Richie Tozier!" The girl laughs and her face turns crimson red.

"Sorry, I just- I really like your comedy." Richie smiles and waves a hands.

"It's chill, man." Richie awkwardly runs his fingers over his knuckles. 

"Do you mind if I get a picture?" Richie sucks a breath in through his teeth.

"No thanks, man, maybe another time." He smiles stiffly and she turns on her heel and leaves. He releases a breath.

"Does that happen a lot?" Eddie asks, digging straight into his food. Richie nods, chuckling, and starting to eat as well, much more politely (for once). 

"Anyway, what's our game plan?" Eddie pauses his feast of grease-covered and eggs and toast to hum for an explanation. "How are we getting this dog - Lady - onto a plane to LA?"

"She has a travel permit. I'd have to dig through some drawers to find it, but I'm sure it's in my bedroom somewhere."

"What? You don't have a folder for all your dogs' stuff? I thought you'd be the kind of freak to have a folder for literally everything. Colour coordination and shit."

"Fuck off. I do have a folder with all her medical history-"

"Of course you do."

"Shut the fuck up, it's important to have."

"They already have a copy _at the vet._ "

"Not when I have to go to a new vet in LA, asshole." Richie's face colours and a lump forms in his throat; it's still taking some time for it to settle in that he's going to be living in the same cramped-as-hell apartment as his childhood crush and love of his life. Everything's fine, though. Totally fine. He's got his emotions in check. Completely under control. 100%. " _Any-fucking-way,_ I have them somewhere, but not the vet file because I haven't needed to use them for something like two months."

"Don't say 'something like' when you obviously know exactly how long."

" _Fuck off._ "

Richie laughs loudly and Eddie punches his shoulder over the table. Despite himself, he's grinning along. He looks away and pinches the bridge of his nose. "So we can take her on the plane; what's next? How do we get her out of the house?"

"Well, I do _not_ want to stick around for her reaction when I declare divorce and kidnap the dog." He takes a moment to take another bite of his food. "So I say: we break into my own house in the middle of the night and I leave a note on the kitchen table."

"Like a runaway type thing?"

"Yeah! Why not? I'm going through my rebellious phase at forty." Richie cackles again.

"How big is Lady anyway?" Eddie pauses his eating for just a second, staring off out the window, before putting his almost-finished sandwich down.

He spreads his arms a bit wider than his torso. "About this big."

"Just wondering, how did you, of all people, get a fucking dog?" Eddie splutters and flounders wordlessly as Richie continues. "Aren't they, like, _super unhygienic_ or some shit?"

"No, I just had a co-worker who's dog had a few puppies and she couldn't look after them all. She was moving over to California because her wife got a better paying job there and they couldn't take more than the mom with them, so-" he waves his hands about. "-now we have Lady. Myra was not happy."

"I probably wouldn't be happy either if my husband brought home a dog named Lady on a whim."

”Fair enough,” Eddie grumbles, simply choosing to ignore the idea of Richie having a husband. “So, we should drive over there — I’ll pay for gas — and then we book it before she calls the police on me for taking my own dog. Deal?”

”Deal.”

They high five over the table and quickly finish their meal before taking off again. 

* * *

**Jazzy @JazzyJ**

Wow, okay, so?? I was on shift at Denny's and look who I found. @TrashmouthTozier and #WHOSEMAN guy. Richie called him Eds O.o [Attached to the tweet is a photo of Richie and Eds: Richie is cackling, his arm stretched out across the table, and Eds has his face turned just past the edge of the booth, smiling and pinching his nose.]


	4. Rest Stops: a Five-Part Mini-Opera - Part Two: Five Guys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooo sorry for the slow update, I was trying to do another twitter chapter but omg I have no ideas what to do for it other than some stuff I think would work in later chapters sooo have this!! sorry if this is boring I just love slice of life stuff. basically the boys talk dogs and relationship drama 
> 
> also for anyone who's following along and hasn't read the changes I made to the last chapter, I decided to make Lady four months old rather than eight months for Reasons okay just trust me here
> 
> pls ignore the fact that i change POV like every three paragraphs i have no impulse control

"Okay, I've booked a flight from Long Island MacArthur Airport for late tomorrow and an Airbnb that allows pets." 

The car hums as it sits at the side of the road, unmoving and warm. A bitter wind had managed to pick up through whatever town they're in, making the car seem actually comfortable for a few minutes. So of _course_ Eddie just _had_ to go and start getting hungry again. Neither of them want to go outside as their coats had been tucked neatly - or shoved into whatever corner it could fit in among the other crumpled clothes - into the bottom of a suitcase. Eddie most certainly doesn't want to go to the Five Guys across the street, and he _definitely_ doesn't want to lose this argument. It's hardly even an argument; Richie is just wearing a button up while Eddie has a cardigan. It's ' _so_ unfair.'

"So, we can drive over to Long Island and be there around eight? Maybe? We can squat at the Airbnb until it's night, then we go rescue your dog, and do whatever tomorrow until we have to go catch our flight." Richie sets his phone down and claps his hands together. "Sound good?"

"Yep," Eddie says, also clapping his hands together. "You know what also sounds good?"

"What?"

"You going and getting something from the Five Guys because you're not the one that got impaled by a clown." Richie throws his head back and groans for a good few seconds before unbuckling his seat belt with a huffed ' _Fine._ ' Eddie grins and sits back in his seat. He looks down at his phone, Twitter pulled up on the App Store. Eddie's never been one to use social media. He got a Facebook because his mother told him to and he's posted on it twice, deleting it as soon as his mother died. He's never felt the need to post anything that happens to him, it's not like anything interesting happens anyway (Other than the whole a-demon-killed-me-and-now-I'm-running-away-to-LA-with-my-dog-and-an-extremely-handsome-man situation. But, then again, who would believe him? Sure the limo business would've been fun to post about but Facebook and Twitter didn't exactly exist in 2001. He has even less to post about now, working as a risk analyst, but a - admittedly narcissistic - part of him wants to keep up to date with the whole #WHOSEMAN thing. Could anyone really blame him? His face is suddenly plastered over a small corner of the internet and he can't even see what's happening. 

He downloads the app just as Richie gets back to the car, two packets of fries in his hand. 

"Thanks," Eddie mumbles. 

"Wow, _such_ sincerity, _such_ appreciation for my _sacrifice!_ " Richie touches the back of his hand to his forehead.

"Shut the fuck up, Richie, it's just some wind."

"Oh, _now_ it's 'just some wind?' Where was that when you were dying of a healed over stab wound?"

Eddie playfully punches his arm, his laughter getting the best of him. 

"Tell me more about Lady," Richie says, elbowing him right back. "What breed is she?" Eddie pauses eating.

"She's uh... Actually, I don- I don't know." Richie pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens Google.

"Let's find out then." Eddie swallows thickly. "What's she look like?"

"She's... brown and white and fluffy-"

"Oh, so every fucking dog ever?"

"Listen, dipshit I'm bad at describing things!"

"Do you have a picture of her?" Eddie quickly goes into his photos. There's nothing there except pictures of documents he needed to send to someone at work.

"... No."

"None?"

"None."

"None at all?"

"No, I told you I have no pictures of my dog because my phone is just fucking _filled_ with pictures of her." Richie laughs, almost in disbelief. He starts to stammer through his wheezes, unable to form a coherent sentence from a pure loss for words.

"You- she- wh- she's your dog!" He throws his head back and cackles. "Your daughter! Our child!" Eddie's cheeks colour and he waves a frantic hand.

"You fucking asshole!" 

"At least I would have pictures of my _child!_ " 

"Just fucking- look up fucking white and brown dog, I don't fucking know!" Eddie starts to search for it on his own phone. He scrolls through the endless pictures of dogs of breeds he doesn't know the names of until he finds a picture of a light brown and white dog with floppy, wavy ears, and a slightly squished nose. He points at it. "There. That's what Lady looks like."

"A Cocker Spaniel?" 

"Yeah."

"Aww, that's adorable!" Richie tilts the phone more towards himself, hand covering the back of Eddie's. He can't stop staring at his hand, the way it covers almost all of his own. His fingertips are calloused from playing the guitar - a hobby that Eddie was _wholly_ unprepared to learn about on the drive between rest stops - and they scrape against his knuckles. He takes back the phone. "Eddie Spaghetti, how could you not know one of the cutest breeds of dog on the planet? Did your co-worker just never tell you the breed?"

"Yeah, she just assumed I know dog breeds or whatever." Eddie slides his phone back into his pocket. "And don't call me Eddie Spaghetti, jackass."

"You're a jackass."

"How the fuck am I a jackass? You're a fucking jackass. Fuck you."

"Made me go out in the cold."

"Oh, my _god._ " Eddie looks around the car before spotting a receipt stuffed into the cup holder. He plucks it out and balls it up in his fist, wasting no time in bouncing it off Richie's head. Richie picks it up after it falls into his lap and throws it right back. "What are you? Five?"

"You started it!"

"You're _five!_ " They burst into laughter and the conversation turns to just insulting each other back and forth. They finish their fries and start throwing the packets at each other until they've balled up ever receipt and loose paper they can possibly find ('Yes twenty receipts is too fucking many to have in your car, man, what the fuck, just put them in the bin!'). After a few minutes of the Paper Ball Brawl of 2016, they take off again.

"Why don't you have any pictures of your dog, by the way?" Eddie hums, snapping back to reality after staring out the window. 

"What do you mean?"

"Like, why wouldn't you take a picture of your pet dog. It's a little weird, y'know?"

"It is not weird."

"Yes, it is."

"Is not."

"Just tell me why you don't have pictures of your dog, man."

Eddie takes a breath and looks guiltily down at his phone. "When I said Myra hates Lady, I mean she _really_ hates Lady. She hates when I'm nice to her, hates when she sits about the house, hates feeding her... She thinks she's carrying fleas and diseases all the time. She was furious when I brought her home. I tried to take some pictures to send an update to Laura, my co-worker, and she got on my ass about it because 'I'd get attached if I took photos.'" There's a long pause.

"Shit, man," Richie mumbles. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's over and done with, and I'm... I'm leaving her now. Fucking hell." He drops his hands into his lap, the reality of it all finally settling in and leaving a pit in his stomach. Not that he doesn't want to leave Myra, he's just not sure if he's ready to go through a divorce. He knows his temper is short; he doesn't want to even consider what kind of hell Richie is going to go through living in the same apartment as him. He's already got to adjust to living with a dog - and probably the most excitable dog in the world - and now he's got a constantly pissed off man going through a divorce and looking for a new job (unless he can work from home). 

"You know," Eddie starts, not really thinking to stop himself as the car pulls out of its parking spot and they roll down the street. "I don't think Myra's really a bad person. We just don't fucking like each other."

"Isn't she, like, a massive dick to Lady?" 

"Well, yeah, but everyone's an asshole in some way. But I think our problem is we just don't get along. I don't know how we got together in the first place." The car is silent for a few heavy moments. Eddie releases a breath. "Sorry for dumping that on you, Rich."

"It's fine." Richie shrugs. "Everyone's got to vent or... whatever."

"What about you?" 

Richie's jaw slackens, his knuckles turning white with his grip on the wheel. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, man, you have to have had at least one girlfriend in the past twenty seven years."

Richie feels a lump in his throat. He considers, for just a moment, telling the truth. Telling Eddie that he's gay, he's been gay since he knew what the word meant and then some, maybe excluding the parts about being gay _for_ him, that can be a problem for another day, and before he can catch himself, he's talking.

"Nope. Never got into dating. Told you I don't write my own material, all that shit's fake." 

Way to go, Richie. Totally nailed it. Yup. _Greaaat_ job there, bud. 

"Not even one story?" Eddie asks, incredulous. Richie shakes his head, his teeth clenched behind his pursed lips. "In twenty seven years?"

"Jesus, dude, just say I'm a lonely fuck and get it over with," he mutters. 

"Sorry, you just talk a lot about dating in your shows for you to not have any actual stories."

"The shit's fake," he says again, stiffly shrugging his shoulders. "Mostly written by this asshole, Brian, I met in college. He's not funny. Like, at all. Also, you watch my shows?"

"Oh, fuck off, I'm sure all of us have watched your shows," Eddie splutters, waving a hand. "Are you ever going to write your own shit?"

"Don't avoid the question! What shows have you watched?"

"Fucking- I don't know!" He thinks for a moment. "Just the two on Netflix?"

"Nice, nice."

"Now _you_ answer _my_ question." Richie quirks a brow, turning his head just enough for Eddie to get the point and not yell at him for taking his eyes off the road. "Are you gonna start writing your own shit?"

"I mean... sure, why not? Survived killing a demon clown fuckwad, I'm sure I can survive writing with my actual humour. Probably have to get a new agent, though. I don't know what I'd even write about." 

"I mean, you have about thirteen years worth of material you just started remembering."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm totally not gonna get chucked in a mental hospital for writing about killer demon clowns that live in the sewers and gobble up children." 

"Fair point."

They don't talk for most the hour journey to their next rest stop, leaving plenty of time Richie to fit 'Silent Yearning For Your Straight Best Friend' into his schedule.


	5. Mystery-Man Eds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh anyone who read the previous chapter before I updated it, I decided to make Lady four months old instead of eight
> 
> anyway, more bants, more twitter, more gay shit lmao

**Jazzy @JazzyJ**

Wow, okay so?? I was on shift at Denny's and look who I found. @trashmouthtozier and #WHOSEMAN guy. Richie called him Eds. O.o [Attached to the tweet is a photo of Richie and Eds: Richie is cackling, his arm stretched out across the table, and Eds has his face turned just past the edge of the booth, smiling and pinching his nose.] 

_Replying to_ **@JazzyJ**

**Richie fuckin Tozier @trashmouthtozier**

damn caught red handed with eds 😪 if u like eds u should hear the other nicknames he has

_Replying to_ **@trashmouthtozier** _and_ **@JazzyJ**

**Richie fuckin Tozier @trashmouthtozier**

ok he's told me not to tell you any of them so eddie spaghetti is now also named dickwad who can't handle fun 😤

_Replying to_ **@trashmouthtozier** _and_ **@JazzyJ**

**Annnieee @AnnieWeller**

Omg 🥺 Eddie Spaghetti??? So cute 🥺🥺🥺

_Replying to_ **@trashmouthtozier** _,_ **@AnnieWeller** _and_ **@JazzyJ**

**Jazzy @JazzyJ**

Holy shit ahaha this is adorable. 

* * *

**Beverly Marsh @Marsh_Designs**

@trashmouthtozier Richie this is an intervention Eds just texted me he wants you to eat a dick and stop talking about him LOL

_Replying to_ **@Marsh_Designs**

**Richie fuckin Tozier @trashmouthtozier**

now everyone can see how mean this tiny little goblin creature is to me 😢

_Replying to_ **@Marsh_Designs** _and_ **@** **trashmouthtozier**

**Bill Denbrough @WDenbrough**

Don’t lie, Richue, ur both assholes to each otger 

_Replying to_ **@Marsh_Designs** _,_ **@trashmouthtozier** _and_ **@WDenbrough**

**Ben Hanscom @BenjaminH**

it’s a very rare occurrence that you two are ever nice to each other so don’t act surprised, Richie

_Replying to **@Marsh_Designs** , **@trashmouthtozier** , **@WDenbrough**_ _and_ **@BenjaminH**

**Mike @MichaelHanlon**

Just a heads up, Eds called you a jackass again

_Replying to **@Marsh_Designs** , **@trashmouthtozier** , **@WDenbrough** , **@BenjaminH** and_ **@MichaelHanlon**

**Stan Uris @StanUris**

A classic, really.

_Replying to_ **@Marsh_Designs** _,_ **@trashmouthtozier** _,_ **@WDenbrough** _and_ **@BenjaminH**

**Richie’s secret wife @Robynnnn**

ok srsly since when were all of u friends eye— 👁👄👁

* * *

**Miss Marsh please marry me @AlecGreen**

So lemme get this Straight... Richie Tozier, Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough & Ben Hanscom are all best friends including like Three Random Guys??? What timeline are we liVING IN????

_Replying to_ **@AlecGreen**

**Richie’s secret wife @Robynnnn**

the best one wym 


	6. Rest Stops: a Five-Part Mini-Opera - Part Three: Hooksett Tolls Rest Area

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so if I was just looking up rest stops in New Hampshire and this came up so. They’re going there now woohoo
> 
> Warning for some mild internalised homophobia

“Richie, for the love of _god_.” They agreed to pull over for a restroom break almost ten minutes ago.

”Have some patience, Eddie, we’ll be there soon.”

”This better be fucking worth it, Trashmouth, or I will kill you. I’ll do it. With my _bare hands_.”

”I promise you, it’ll be worth it. I’ve heard good things about this place, just you wait.”

* * *

”Y’know,” Eddie ponders aloud, “when you said you’d ‘ _heard good things_ ,’ I didn’t think you meant they sold liquor on the side of the highway.”

” _Tax-free_ liquor, Eds!” Richie cackles, pulling into the car park. “Is this not every man’s dream in life?”

”Are you fucking kidding me?” Eddie splutters. “This is a one-way ticket to a fucking car wreck and people dying and- stop laughing, this isn’t fucking funny!” 

As soon as they’re out of the bathroom, Richie sends Eddie off to find a table whilst he gets them a couple bottles of liquor. Eddie watches him through the window, and once he disappears into the shop, he opens Twitter. He stumbles through making an account and tries to not get annoyed by all the taken usernames, until he settles on @Edward_Kaspbrak. He regrets it within seconds.

Does he really want to know what strangers are saying about him? Does he even need to know what they’re saying? Does he want to see for himself how many pictures have been taken of he and Richie? He doesn’t have any social media in the first place, why should he start using it now? He knows he’s never going to use it again after this whole situation is over. Maybe it could be nice keeping updated on what his friends are doing. The account’s already been made, he supposes, might as well keep it for now. 

Just as he looks up and out the window again, he spots Richie lugging a box of Fireball Whiskey back to the car. He groans and scrubs his face. He peaks out from under his fingers and sees him heading back over, coat tied around his waist in the August heat. It’s then he notices how tight his undershirt really is. A lump forms in his throat and he hastily looks away, studying the knots in the wood of the table. His face feels hot. Or maybe it’s just hot in general. He sneaks another look and finds himself face to face with Richie’s back; his shoulder blades. And he definitely shouldn't be thinking about his friend like this.

Well, it’s not _bad_ , per se, to think your friends are attractive, right? Richie’s an attractive man! He’s not _gay_ , or anything. Hell, he has a wife. For now, at least. But he’s not gay. Richie just happens to have very broad shoulders, and a great chest, and big arms, and hands that could crush a man’s skull, and it’s not Eddie’s fault that he has eyes. Right? Right. Right? Yeah. _Right_? Maybe. He’s probably not gay. If he was, you’d think he’d know before the age of forty. This is usually something you discover in your teen years or early twenties. But, then again, there was his coworker, Margot. She realised she was transgender when she was forty-three. Who’s to say he couldn’t have the same type of epiphany?

Fuck. This might get a little inconvenient. It’s certainly not ideal, not when you’re stuck a car with the stupid-attractive man for another two hours, at least. And when you’re a day away from moving in with said man. And when he won’t stop referring to your dog as ‘our child.’ But he can deal with this. He’s handled worse situations and come out alive. Most of the time, anyway.

Richie knocks on the table and brings Eddie back to the real world.

”Did you really need to get a whole box of whiskey?” Eddie asks before he can think of anything better to say. 

“Um, _yes_?” Richie sinks down into his seat, an incredulous look on his face. 

“Why?” 

“If we are going to break into your house, steal your dog, and run away to LA,” Richie says slowly, clapping his hands over every word, “then we need a case of whiskey. It’s just a fact.”

”Jesus Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing his face again. “Have I told you recently that I hate you?”

”Like, fifteen minutes ago, yeah.”

”Good.”

Richie leaves again and returns with a couple of drinks and prepackaged sandwiches: chicken tikka and a ham and cheese with two bottles of water. They spend their time in the rest stop eating and chatting whilst Richie shows Eddie updates upon updates of people thinking Eddie is hot; he starts to wonder if he even needs to get Twitter when Richie is right here to show him all the details he needs. He also wonders how they find _him_ the hot one in the pictures when Richie is standing right there next to him. 

They finish their food and head back out to the car with their bottles of water. Just as Eddie has opened the door, Richie makes a quiet ‘Oh!’ sound. Richie holds up his hands, already turning back to the shops.

”Just give me _one_ second, okay, wait,” and with that he’s gone. Eddie groans and pulls his phone out, leaning against the car. He open Twitter again, and finds the search tab. 

‘Richard Tozier,’ he types. No results.

’Richie Tozier,’ he types next. No real accounts, only a weird amount of fan pages. 

“Please don’t tell me his username is Trashmouth,” he whispers into the air.

”...” replies the air.

’Trashmouth,’ he types, and up comes a verified account. @trashmouthtozier. Of fucking course.

He’s interrupted by a ‘Heads up!’ and a shirt flying straight into his face just as he looks up. After fumbling to set his phone down on the hood of the car, he pulls the shirt off his head and unfolds it to read it. In the font of a shitty, fake college sweatshirt you could find at a Dollar Tree, it says ‘LIVE FREE OR DIE’ on the chest of the off-white pullover. 

“To replace your ruined shirt,” Richie explains, a shit-eating smile on his face. Eddie looks from Richie, to the pullover, and back to Richie. He doesn’t hold back the growing smile on his face.

”I hate it,” he says anyway. Richie grins a little wider. They climb into the car and head back on the road.

* * *

**Benson @BensonMusix**

YOOO!!! IT’S THE GUY FROM THE THING AND @trashmouthtozier !!!!! THEYRE ON A ROAD TRIP BABEY [Attached to the tweet is a video recorded from inside the Hooksett Toll Rest Area liquor store: Eds standing by the car and Richie speed-walking over and throwing a pullover into his face. They get in the car and drive away.]

* * *

**Notifications**

. All Mentions

**_______________________________** __________________ 

**Edward Kaspbrak** followed you


	7. Rest Stops: a Five-Part Mini-Opera - Part Four - A Publix Car Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a new keyboard and it’s Very fun to type on so get ready for some Updates Babey  
> Also I’m sorry that these chapter are kinda short?? I just don’t want to add a bunch of filler for the sake of having over a thousand words or whatever. 
> 
> TW for some internalised homophobia, mentions of homophobia and conversion therapy, also the places Chic-fil-A donates to so. It’s not a lot of mention tho

There’s a Chic-fil-A across the street.

Richie’s watching people walk in and out of the restaurant and he feels a twist of annoyance in his stomach. Half of them probably know where their money is going in that stupid building. He’s never been one to get into those kinds of issues — representation in TV, shitty companies, whatever. He’d prefer to just ignore his being gay as much as possible, really. — but he can’t help but want to punch people who still eat there. It’s public that the company is filled with assholes and homophobes, and yet people still give them money because some chicken is more important than not sending money to people who hate the gays, apparently. He sets his jaw and looks away. He and Eddie had just gotten back from the Publix they’re parked in front of after getting some snacks and he prays to _god_ that Eddie doesn’t notice the Chic-fil-A down the street. Doesn’t quite feel like getting into the homophobia behind the chicken sandwiches.

And he still hasn’t even come out to Eddie yet. That’s probably something he should do before this straight man moves into his apartment with his dog. Is that gross? That he hasn’t told him yet? Christ, he’s going to be _living with Eddie_ and he hasn’t even told him he’s gay. He _needs_ to tell him. Sooner or later. Or... he could just... not? Tell him? Keep it deep inside his chest, tucked away nice and tight, and the one day he’ll die.

Is it creepy to not tell him? His roommate in college thought so after it took three months of living in the same shitty dorm for him to come out. Fuck, Richie hasn’t come out to anyone since he was, what? twenty-five? Two of his friends from college and his manager, Steve know — and that’s only because he got _very_ drunk a few times. And because one of those friends from college was gay, himself. Telling Steve went... fine. Except for the fact that it led to a conversation about him not coming out because was getting some attention and Steve didn’t want that to be ruined by _being a homosexual_ , god forbid. 

He notices that he’s staring off into space when Eddie flicks him on the arm. 

“Dude.”

”Hm?” 

“You okay? You kinda zoned out there.”

Richie opens his mouth, about ready to spill everything in his head, but his throat closes and mouth dries and his heart drums in his chest, so he shrugs. “I’m fine.” Eddie gives him a look. 

“Anyway, as I was saying, we missed the Chic-fil-A down there,” he says and Richie’s stomach drops through the floor so fast, he’s surprised it wasn’t audible. “We should’ve gone. Have you been before? It’s really good.”

Maybe... Maybe this is a good opportunity to come out. He can make a Segway out of this. Sure. He makes a game plan in his head: explain the shitty stuff in Chic-fil-A’s background, which then leads to him coming out, which leads to Eddie being cool with it and they live together with a cute little Cocker Spaniel until he finds his own apartment after the divorce, and — hooray — it’s a happy ending for everyone. 

Or, maybe it would lead to Eddie being grossed out by him and deciding to find somewhere else to stay and he can never look Eddie in the eye ever again and he never gets to meet Lady the Cocker Spaniel.

Or, _or_ , maybe it would lead to Eddie getting angry and hating him for not telling him before they’re two states over and hours away from flying across the country, then he tells the rest of the Losers and he dies sad and alone in his crummy LA apartment at the _ripe old age_ of sixty-seven. And he never gets to meet Lady the Cocker Spaniel.

So it goes like this:

”Yeah, I don’t really like Chic-fil-A,” he says, balling up a now-empty packet of chips and dumping it in the designated rubbish-plastic-bag. His heart is beating in his throat. He can feel his hands growing sweaty. Fuck, he’s _forty_ , he shouldn’t be getting fucking nervous over this shit. 

“Aw, what? Why?”

”They, uh... The company donates to these anti-gay foundations ‘n’ shit? Like, ones that want to ban gay marriage and keep conversion therapy legal? I just don’t wanna support that shit, y’know?”

”Oh,” Eddie says. “Right. Never-mind then. That’s gross.”

Okay, good response, now all he needs to do is come out to him. If he thinks Chic-fil-A is gross, then he should be fine with Richie being gay. That’s how it works, right? No, of fucking course not. But, he might as well try, he supposes. 

“Yeah,” he starts. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand. “There’s also, um...” The air gets caught in his throat and he doesn’t finish. He tries to force the words out, but he’s silent. Just sitting with his nails digging so far into his skin, he’s afraid they might start to bleed, even if they’re too blunt to ever pierce skin.

Never-mind. He can’t fucking do this. Not right now. _Nope_. Right now, he just needs to work on not throwing up from his nerves. He can do that. Easy. 

“Also...?” Eddie prompts.

”... I forgot,” he chuckles. “I’ll tell you if I remember. Wanna get going now? The AirBNB isn’t that far away.” Eddie gives him another _look_ but nods and moves to look out the window instead.

As he pulls out of the car park, he can’t help but feel the anger at himself start to pool in his chest. He chickened out. Jesus, how hard can it fucking be to just say ‘I’m gay’ and move the fuck on? It’s not like he can put it off forever, he has to tell him at some point. Even if he’s kept it hidden for most of his forty years alive, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to keep that up when his best friend is living in the same house as him for god knows how long. Besides, he’d feel weird and creepy not telling him. Just like he did in college. 

Who knew your childhood friends, whom you tried _so desperately_ to act straight in front of would be so hard to come out to?

He did. He knew. He knew this was going to be hard, whether he knew they were accepting of it or not. He knew it wasn’t going to be something he could tell them right away. He knew it would be extra hard to tell Eddie, considering he had the biggest crush on him when he was thirteen and honestly might still have one. Why is he surprised, then, that it’s difficult?

Great. Now he’s pissed off _and_ he feels like an idiot. Usually, those are two separate moods he finds himself stewing over. He represses a deep sigh and resorts to scrunching his face up for just a second and focusing on not crashing the car from being stuck in his own head for too long.

This going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls try to ignore the giant space in between a couple paragraphs??? Idk how to fix it but its Not Meant To Be There


	8. Rest Stops: a Five-Part Mini-Opera - Part Five: Bed And Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hjfdhsujbuwfuibwfeb I Promise the next chapter will have more action and less conversation

The AirBNB is _gross._ It’s fucking _gross._ Who the fuck knows who’s been in here, do they even clean between guests? Is the water safe? The fucking wallpaper is _peeling_ , that shouldn’t be fucking allowed. If there are pets allowed in here, what kind of animals have been wandering around this already-gross room? What if some dog had _fleas_ in here and left them lying around? And Eddie swears he smells cigarette smoke in here. Fuck, he feels like taking a shower already. Or maybe he’s just been in a hot car for five hours. 

“Eds, Jesus Christ, the place wouldn’t be open if it isn’t up to standard, oh, my god,” Richie groans through his hands, cutting in the middle of his ranting and pacing session. “There are no fleas in here, it smells of smoke because there’s a smoking area outside, the water is safe because, again, they wouldn’t be open if it wasn’t, and peeling wallpaper just means it’s old. It happens all the time. Just. _Chill._ ” 

“I’m bringing Lady in here! I don’t want to risk her getting fucking fleas!” Eddie rakes his hands through his hair. “And don’t fucking call me Eds.”

”If there are fleas in this BNB, I will personally pay for the medication.” Richie holds up three fingers. “Scouts honour.”

”You never went to the fucking Scouts,” he huffs and sits down on the bed. He doesn’t like the crunch that the mattress makes. He sighs heavily. “... Is this a bad idea?”

”What is?”

”Stealing Lady?” Richie considers his next words for a moment.

”We’re not... _stealing_ her. We’re saving her.”

”No, no, I mean...” Eddie waves his hands around, trying to find the words to form his point. “Could we get in trouble for this?” Richie bursts out laughing.

”What are you, twelve?”

”It’s not fucking funny,” he spits. “Stop fucking laughing, jackass!”

” _Oh no! Are we gonna get in trouble?_ ” Richie cackles, throwing his head back. “ _I hope no one tells the teacher, Eds, oh golly!_ ”

”I’m talking about with the police, asshole!” He gets up and starts pacing all over again. “What if Lady starts barking? What if Myra wakes up? What if she calls the police? Or the neighbours call the police? Maybe we shouldn’t do this... Maybe I should just wait for the divorce and see if I can get the dog. She doesn’t want Lady anyway.”

”Eddie. She’s legally your dog, right?”

”That’s not really how it works, but—“

”Then how does it work?”

”Basically, if a break-up or divorce happens and there’s an argument over who will keep the dog, the couple will go to court and, based on a certain number of factors — who takes more responsibility for the dog, who’s name is registered on the microchip database, vet’s practice and insurance, who pays for its day to day expenses, who originally adopted the dog — the District Judge will decide who gets to keep the dog.”

”Wow, you’ve really thought about this— anyway, ownership would basically automatically go to you, right?”

”I mean... probably, but what if something goes wrong? What if the court rules Myra as her owner, I’ve never done this shit before—“

”But you said ‘if there’s an argument,’” Richie points out, clapping his hands together. “You’ve said a lot that Myra hates this dog. Why would she want to keep Lady? Even if she did try to take her out of spite or some shit, surely some of your coworkers know this? Maybe even some of her friends?”

”Her friends wouldn’t back me up, but you have a point.” He sits back down. “She might not even argue with me on it.”

”See?” Richie claps a hand on his shoulder. “Plus, if anyone calls the police for breaking and entering, you can prove that you live there. It’s not breaking and entering if it’s your own house.”

”Right.” Eddie’s shoulders relax just a little. “Plus, I have the papers to prove I take sole care of her, and the neighbours see me walk her every day before work.”

”See?” Richie grins, and an unfamiliar warmth swells in Eddie’s chest. He can’t help the smile spreading on his own face. He looks into his lap, fidgeting with his fingers, wringing his hands. He tries to ignore the feeling — it’s something he can worry about later. Should he worry about it? Maybe. Probably.

”Okay,” Eddie says with a deep breath. “Okay. Thanks, man.”

”Alright. I’m gonna put on a movie and we can relax until it’s time to go out.” Richie gets up and heads over to the TV. There are a few DVDs in a black case and he starts to flip through. “They have _Over The Hedge_ , _The Room_ , _Cabin in the Woods_ , and—“ he flips through the remaking pages of the folder. “—huh. _Pulp Fiction._ ” 

“I’ve never watched _Cabin in the Woods_ ,” he says, and Richie gasps, loud and incredulous. He excitedly fishes the disk out of the folder and places it in the DVD player. He looks back at Eddie and the grin on his dopey face sends the warm feeling flooding right back into Eddie’s chest. He lets it stay there this time. 

“It’s so good, it’s my favourite fucking movie,” he says, settling down on the bed opposite Eddie’s own as the TV loads the film and he presses play. “How have you never seen it?”

”I don’t really watch horror movies,” he mutters. Richie snorts.

”It’s hardly a _horror_ , it’s hilarious.” The movie starts and, if Eddie spends more time watching Richie’s smiling face than he does the movie, then that’s his business.

* * *

The car has grown cold and the sky has grown dark. Any visible stars, the moon, have been covered by clouds like a thick, dark grey blanket. Streetlights line the pavement, flooding the roads with a warm yellow. Richie climbs in on the other side of the car.

”You ready to get this dog?” he asks, starting up the engine.

He’s not ready. He’s not ready to break into his house, or declare he wants a divorce, or steal his dog, or move across the country, or quit his job, or move in with his best friend that he didn’t know for twenty-seven years. There’s a knot forming in his chest, and he can feel it pulling tighter and tighter until it’s near impossible to breathe. His palms are sweaty. His stomach is twisting. His heart is beating in his throat. 

“Yeah,” he says, despite at all. “I’m ready.” 


	9. Saving Little Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s time to meet Lady boys

The car rolls to a stop in front of the house. Despite being quite stout for a two-story building, it seems to loom over the two men parked outside it. A fieldstone house that’s more suburban than Richie expected to see in Long Island, but just as sad as you would expect from an unhappy heterosexual couple. It’s grey on beige on white on more beige on more grey. A front lawn, meticulously mowed with not a weed in sight. A sad excuse for a porch in the front that looks barely long enough to fit an old rocking chair on for when you’re old and greying. A gravel path leads up to three steps, perfectly in line with a white door. Small, white-framed windows sit in neat rows along the front of the house, all the same shape and size with white blinds drawn behind the glass. It’s exactly the kind of house that a risk analyst would live in. Richie can’t help but look at it and think, ‘ _Of course Eddie lives here. Where else would he live?_ ’ 

Speaking of Eddie, he’s currently sitting stiff as a board in the passenger seat with a grip so tight on the hem of his jacket that his knuckles have gone white. His brows are firmly knitted and his eyes are so wide that Richie’s afraid they might just pop out of his skull at any moment. But still, it’s time to enact plan Saving Little Lady. The steps are simple, fool-proof even: get in, pack some shit, get the dog, get the fuck out of dodge. Unfortunately, they are absolute fools with no back-up plan, but, hey — Richie’s self aware enough to acknowledge it. That’s gotta be a plus. 

And so, Eddie gets out the car, leaving the passenger and back doors open, ready for a dog and some duffel bags to be flung into and speed off down the road with. He walks down the sad, grey gravel path, up the sad, grey stone stairs, across the sad, grey Porch of Sadness and No Fun, as Richie’s decided to call it. He sticks the key in the lock...

... then he whips around and marches right on back to the car. He gets in and, before Richie can even say anything, mutters, “I can’t fucking do this, man.”

”Yes, you can.”

”No, I can’t, I need you to come in with me, don’t fucking laugh or some shit, just—“ Richie takes him by the shoulders.

”Okay. Chill out,” he says. “Again. I’ll go with you, dude. It’s no big deal. Come on.” He gets out on his side of the car and, after staring at the empty air where Richie once was, Eddie nods to himself and steps out again. They both head back down the path and Eddie quietly unlocks the door, easing it shut behind them. 

The house is disgustingly old fashioned. A tacky, glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling of the very short corridor. It’s painted a gross, dusty pink with clashing teal rugs. In fact, there are rugs and mats everywhere. There seems to be a welcome mat in front of each door, all horrifically patterned and awful colours. Two white doors are on either side of the walls at the base of the stairs, another one at the back of the hall. They’re all the same and Richie can’t tell which ones go to the living room or the kitchen or dining room. Small paintings of generic and washed out valleys in ornate frames line the walls; the frames are prettier than the paintings are or probably ever were. There are small nooks above the doors that are stuffed with patterned vases and Richie doesn’t know what drugs the architect was on when they decided on that shit, but he wants some.

“You stay at the bottom of the stairs, I’m gonna go up and pack some stuff and write a note. Got it?” Eddie whispers. Richie gives a thumbs up.

”My brain isn’t that smooth, Eds, I can handle standing still.”

”I’m surprised there’s _anything_ rattling around up there at all. And don’t call me Eds,” and with that, he creeps up the stairs and down the hall. Richie leans against the wall, pulling out his phone and opening Twitter. He checks his notification and spots a familiar name. ‘Edward Kaspbrak followed you.’ He texts Eddie immediately, a shit-eating grin on his face. He sends a screenshot and a ‘this u?’ underneath. There’s a loud ding from upstairs, and some creaking.

’W-T-F RICHIE!!!’ the eventual reply reads.

’i didn’t know u left ur ringer on’ he sends back. ‘not my fault smh 😤’ 

Then he hears a quiet whine from the living room, the scrape of nails against the wooden floor boards. The door creaks ajar to reveal a black, wet nose prying it open, and tumbling out comes a _very_ sleepy puppy. A squished snout, floppy littles ears and a gently wagging tail. Dark brown, black, and white hair on a fluffy little creature and a tiny pink tongue poking out through her teeth. There’s just one thing wrong with her.

She’s definitely _not_ a Cocker Spaniel.

 _Little Lady_ is a Saint Bernard.

Nonetheless, he kneels down — because _puppy_ — and lets Lady have a sniff of his hand. She presses her nose against the back of his hand for a few seconds before jumping up onto Richie’s legs, panting and wagging with her whole, small body. He chuckles quietly and pets behind her ears and under her chin. Everything’s fine, he’s having a swell old time with this Not Cocker Spaniel, until she lets out a shrill bark into the deafening silence. He hurriedly shushes her and she just barks again. Eddie reappears at the top of the stairs, two more duffels bags over his shoulders and a sticky-note in his hand. He’s _furious._

Eddie rushes down the stairs as quietly as he can manage, and he whisper-yells, “What the _fuck_ did you do?”

” _Nothing!_ I was petting her and she started barking, I didn’t do anything—“

”—I gave you _one fucking job_ and—“

”—as if you’re any better, you left your ringer on full when we’re trying not to wake up your wife—“

”—I swear to _god,_ so _help me_ I will _wring_ your neck I—“

”—how is this _my fault_ , she’s a _puppy_ , what am I supposed to do? Ignore her? I’m not a _monster—_ “

”—I’ll _show_ you a fucking monster—“

” _Eddie?_ ” A voice calls from upstairs. Eddie shoves the duffel bags into Richie arms and pushes him into the living room. “Is that you? Why didn’t you call before you came in, you know I get worried about break-ins.” There’s a faint shuffling at the top of the staircase. Lady barks again. 

“Uh— yeah, it’s just me, sorry!” Eddie calls back. There’s some more creaking behind the door. Richie holds his breath. “I just didn’t want to wake you up, dear, I’ll calm Lady down, just you go back to bed.”

”Okay, but be quick please, it’s late.” There are a few seconds of silence as Myra returns to her room and the door opens. Richie steps out and Lady barks again at the sight of him. They both hiss a ‘ _Shh!_ ’ and Eddie smacks Richie’s arm.

” _What?_ “

”You’re being too loud.”

”I’m _helping_.”

”No, you’re not! You’re doing the exact opposite of helping!”

”Yes, I am! Look, she’s not barking! Also, this isn’t a fucking _Cocker Spaniel_ , Eddie.”

“Listen, I can explain—“

”You fucking better. A Cocker Spaniel isn’t even _comparable_ to a fucking _Saint Bernard_ —“

”Let’s get the dog out the house before we talk about this, okay?” Eddie says. At full volume. They freeze. Tired footsteps head right back over to the stairs.

”Eddie?” Myra calls again. “Is there someone with you? Who else is there? Who are you talking to?”

“Shit—“ Eddie slaps the sticky note on the hall mirror, grabs the duffel bags off of Richie, and bolts for the door. Richie hoists Lady over his shoulder and trips over himself in his rush to follow, very nearly toppling over onto the floor. He runs out to the car, tucking Lady into the backseat among the blanket and extra pillows they took from the AirBNB, and flings himself into the driver’s seat.

Through the wide open door, he spots Myra appear at the top of the stairs, hears a panicked ‘ _I want a divorce! Read the note!_ ’ and Eddie runs for the car, slamming the door behind him. He sprints over and the car is running before he even gets in. Neither of them have gotten their seatbelts on before they tear down the road, just before Myra makes it out the front door. 

Eddie and Richie are breathing hard, hearts pounding in their chests and sitting straight up against their seats. They start to laugh, almost in disbelief as they slow the car down to the legal limit and take quick glances at Lady in the back seat. She’s nestled herself among the blanket, happily panting, her tail wagging back and forth. She barks again at Eddie before her heads flops down onto her paws. 

Before Richie can even think about what he wants to say, he’s speaking. Because he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut for more than two minutes, can he?

”Eddie?”

”What?”

”I’m gay.”


	10. Of Homosexuals and Saint Bernards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for homophobia and hate crime mention, specifically Adrien and Dom, the gay couple at the start of IT Chapter Two

“What?”

”I’m gay.”

A silence falls over the car, just the clinking of gravel hitting the underside of the car, Lady’s panting, and passing cars filling the air. Eddie looks at Richie; he’s staring straight ahead, shoulders tense and arms straight ahead of him. His lips are pressed together in a tight line, his jaw set firmly in place. Eddie can practically feel his teeth grinding.

”N-... No, I heard that part, I just— what?”

”I’m gay and I wanted to tell you before we stole your dog, but I chickened out and now the adrenaline is wearing off and I’m realising this was a bad idea.” Richie's speaking a mile-a-minute. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking in and letting out shaky breaths. Eddie places a hand on his shoulder, desperate to calm him down.

”Hey, no, Richie, it’s okay,” he says, trying to hide the concern in his voice and failing miserably. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I was scared, man,” Richie says, like it’s obvious. “I haven’t... _come out_ to anyone since I was, like, twenty-five.”

”You know you could’ve told any of us, right?” He scoffs.

”Except I couldn’t,” he says, quietly laughing but not easing up at all. “Did you know that two gay men were beaten in the same fucking week we were called back? I didn’t want to take the chance of getting hate-crimed because my good ol’ pals happen to also be raging homophobes like most the assholes in that god-awful town.”

Eddie’s chest tightens and he feels a flare of anger bubble in his throat. “What the fuck, Richie,” he splutters. “How could you fucking think that? We’re your _friends_ , asshole!”

”No offence, Eds, but it’s been twenty-seven fucking years. How the fuck would I know if you’ve picked that shit up or not. Derry is and always has been extremely homophobic. It was terrifying growing up there, _knowing_ that a good number of those assholes would want me dead if I slipped up — not knowing if I was friends with people who would want me dead if they found out. Being my friends doesn’t make you immune to picking up that same mindset from your parents, or other friends, or whatever the fuck. Being open about that shit in Derry can literally cost me my fucking life. Hell, it almost _did_ a few times. I couldn’t risk it. And it’s not like I could _leave_ , Bev had just told us we’d all _die horrible deaths_ if we left. I was stuck in that fucking town house praying to fucking _god_ that none of you would somehow figure it out.”

Silence floods the car again. Eddie’s heart is beating in his throat. The car is stopped in the middle of the road while Richie looks out of the window, head lowered and his knuckles white with his grip on the steering wheel. The engine hums, a quiet purr keeping the air from being too still. Even Lady has gone silent. Shame replaces the anger as his brows furrow. The anger is still there, more obvious than it was before — how could it not? — but now he feels the guilt alongside it. He mulls over the speech. It echoes through his skull, the squirming feeling of knowing Richie grew up fearing the town he lived in and _not realising_ forming a lump in his throat. How could he not know? How could he not see that Richie was so scared?

“Richie, I... I’m so sorry , I didn’t- I didn’t know—“

”It’s alright,” Richie says, but his tone isn’t very convincing. “I’m sorry I blew up on you.” The car starts to move again.

”I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Lady.”

”Yeah, why didn’t you tell me she was a Saint Bernard?”

”I thought you wouldn’t agree to take her if you knew she was gonna be a big dog and I... I couldn’t leave her with Myra. She hates Lady. I couldn’t leave her there.”

Richie takes a deep breath through his nose, Lady’s whining being the only thing keeping Eddie tethered to reality. He wants to float away, just for a moment, but he needs to stay in the moment. He can’t just say he’s scared and log out. Not this time.

”I guess we both have some things we don’t tell each other,” Richie murmurs, his grip on the steering wheel finally loosening. “Any other news you have to tell me before we fly across the country?”

He doesn’t. But he has questions. What did the Losers Club do to make him feel scared to be himself around them? What did _he_ do? How can he make sure that Richie never feels that way ever again in his life, because so help him, god, he’s wants to _destroy_ whatever could possibly make Richie want to hide again. He wants to know exactly how he fucked up and made his friend feel unsafe and fix it. He wants to know the names and addresses of everyone who made Richie feel ashamed of himself and... give them a talk, to put it lightly. _Fuck them up_ , to put it a little less lightly.

He shakes his head.

* * *

Richie pulls into the car park of the AirBNB. They haven’t spoken a word to each other for the rest of the drive back. Eddie feels like he’s about to burst at the seams. Eddie looks to the building up and down. It’s about as dingy as the inside is: dirty bricks, black at the edges, vines creeping up the walls that he knows _probably_ isn’t poison ivy but who can be too sure? The burgundy front door has just as much chipped and peeling paint as the walls inside. Cracked wood paint laying in chips on the floor that the wind hadn’t even bothered to sweep away.

Richie brings in a duffel bag on one shoulder, and Lady on the other, while Eddie carries in the second bag. He shuts the door behind himself, his lips lifting at the corners as he watches Lady sniff around the bed that Richie has plopped her on. She yawns and falls onto her side, falling asleep within seconds, it seems. Richie huffs a laugh and stroke her ears away from her face. Eddie watches his careful hands, his hesitant touches, and he takes a breath.

”Did I do something?” He asks, without thinking over whether it was a good idea.

”What?” Richie replies, a little caught off guard. “What do you mean?” Eddie scrambles for the words to say what he wants to say. It’s too late to brush it off as nothing.

”Did I do something to make you feel scared to come out to me?” Richie grimaces and looks down at the floor. “I just don’t want to make you feel like that again.” 

“No, it—“ He lets out a frustrated sigh and sits on the edge of his bed. “It’s nothing you did specifically, I just wanted to be careful. Don’t think about it too much, man, I’ve done enough _thinking about it_ to last both of us a lifetime. Just didn’t want you to... to get angry or something.”

”Angry?” Eddie perches himself opposite Richie. Lady shimmies herself over to rest her tired head on Richie’s thigh and fall right back asleep. Richie begins slowly, considering his words for a good while before opening his mouth.

“When we teenagers, I knew I was gay. I think I was twelve, almost thirteen, when I realised. And I didn’t tell _anyone_ because it was the fucking 80s, for one thing, and also the whole AIDS pandemic was—“

”Did you not tell me you were gay because you thought I’d freak out about AIDS?”

Richie nods. Eddie places his hand atop Richie’s. When he looks back up, there are tears in his eyes. Eddie feels a twist in his stomach, a small lurch that sends him stepping forward and pulling Richie into his arms, tucking Richie’s head into his shoulder. He wraps his arms around Eddie, Holding him just as tight and barely holding back a quiet sob. Eddie’s heart clenches at the sound. He cards his fingers through Richie’s hair, careful not to catch them on any knots (he should really tell him to use a comb every now and then, but now isn’t a great time, is it?). He quietly shushes him, petting down the jet black curls, only to watch them spring back up like a Jack in the Box. He feels Richie take the back of his jacket between his fingers so he sits down next to him on the bed and shuffles closer.

Richie sniffs and lifts his head, but doesn’t completely pull away. “God,” he laughs wetly. “Sorry I’m being such a little bitch.” He wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand and Eddie knits his eyebrows together. His glasses have gone squinty. He reaches up and fixes them only to feel a flutter in his stomach, pins and needles where his fingertips brushed against Richie’s temple. 

“No, you’re not,” Eddie reassures, still running one hand through Richie’s hair. He tries to ignore the way it makes his brain feels little fuzzy around the edges for the time being. “You’re not. I’m sorry you had to go through that for so long. Being scared like that.”

A little snout starts to push its way between their torsos. They finally pull apart and Lady takes the opportunity to fully wriggle her way onto Richie’s lap. She’s a little too big to fit on his legs, but she curls herself into a ball and settles down anyway. She looks up at Richie with her big, dark brown eyes. He looks down at her and she rests her chin flat against Richie’s stomach. They laugh quietly and she barks again. They shush her through their giggles. Her tail wags like it’s on a motor as Eddie gives her a gentle clap on the back. 

“Eds,” Richie says, his voice high and already adoring. He sounds like he might cry all over again. “Eds, she’s so cute.”

Richie shifts her up so her head is on his chest, and Eddie can’t help but smile as he watches Richie pet her: gently petting down her head and shoulders, scratching under her ears. Her eyes slowly close. He slowly lulls her into another sleep which will probably only be another nap.

”You don’t have to pet her so lightly, you know,” Eddie says. “She already throws herself across the floor five times a day.”

”Huh?” Richie seems genuinely concerned and Eddie snickers.

“She’s a puppy! She runs everywhere and doesn’t know how to stop so she falls over all the time.”

”Right,” Richie sighs. “I’ve just always had cats before. You need to pet them gently, they’re so tiny.”

”Everything’s tiny compared to _your_ hands, you’re practically Bigfoot.” He gets another lump in his throat and _needs_ to change the topic from Richie’s hands. “Wait- you’re a cat person?”

”Fuckin- _yeah?_ ” Richie cackles in disbelief. “Are you _not?_ ”

”I have a dog, Rich.”

”Yeah, but... _cats_ , man.”

” _Lady._ ” 

“Fair point.”

They chat idly for another while and set up another bed for Lady with the duvet and extra pillows. They eventually decide to hit the hay and get some sleep, but all that ends up being is bickering and bantering back and forth for hours until the’re too tired to keep talking.

When they wake up, Lady had somehow managed to climb up onto the bed and wrap herself around Eddie’s face like ivy, happy to finally be home.


End file.
